The Fate of Captain Pitts
by rosetyler39
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and his trusty companion, Doctor John Watson, are caught off guard one Sunday morning by the arrival of Detective Inspector Lestrade who brings them the sudden news of a local tobacco trader's murder. Such a case, though a bit unusual, seems rather standard for the dynamic duo as they investigate. But it seems that appearances can be deceiving. (Watson whump ahead.)


**Hello sweeties! I thought it might be fun to try writing like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And that plus Watson whumpage equals... well, this.**

 **Please let me know what you think!**

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Out of the many cases which I have had the privilege of solving beside my brilliant friend, Sherlock Holmes, none remain so prevalent in my mind as the one I am about to regale my readers with. Upon the pure memory my abdomen aches, as does my shoulder when my sleep is disturbed by visions of the Afghan war. But it seems that such a case not only had such adverse effects on myself, but on my companion as well.

It all began one Sunday morning at the hour of eight; Holmes and I were happily breakfasting on the scrambled eggs and toasted honey-glazed bread our landlady had kindly provided us. My friend sat in his usual spot, his hawkish nose buried in Machiavelli's "The Prince", a treatise he was most familiar with. Upon my inquiry as to why he was reading it yet again, he replied quite passively with what seemed to be a most common utterance of his:

"Bored."

Simply ignoring his curious activity, I resumed my meal, only finishing an approximate one-third of my eggs when Detective Inspector Lestrade suddenly came through the door to our flat, as he was wont to do. The poor man looked quite taxed, the sweat upon his furrowed brow and his unbuttoned collar making it clear to me that he had run to our place of residence. The shadows beneath his sunken eyes also indicated quite a long night without a restful sleep. The latter observation immediately moved me from my chair, and I was compelled to offer it to the inspector. With a grateful nod, he sat himself down, and I, subject to my training as a physician, poured him a glass of cold water of which he most gladly downed in two swift gulps.

Meanwhile Holmes, not one to be so easily perturbed by such a dramatic appearance, calmly set his book upon the table and dabbed the corners of his small mouth with his napkin.

"Inspector," he smiled at the fatigued man sat before him, "I do hope we haven't another Peter Carey."

Lestrade, having regained some of his senses, returned my friend's comment with a raised eyebrow and a tight-lipped expression.

"What ever do you mean?" he asked.

"A mere joke, old fellow," Holmes chuckled. "But given your recent visit to the London Docks and the obvious fact that you've hastily sought out mine and Watson's aid, I'd say the case you've brought the both of us does indeed involve a sailor who has met with quite a gruesome fate."

"Gracious, Holmes," Lestrade exclaimed from his chair, "How in God's name did you know that I was down at the Docks?"

"My methods are no more foreign to you than they are to our friend, the good doctor who is currently standing beside you." A smile played on my companion's thin lips as he looked in my direction. "So pray, proceed with your tale, Lestrade."

Holmes propped his sharp elbows upon the surface of our dining table and tented his hands readily, I placing a spare chair beside him and crossing my left leg over my right.

"The facts are these, Mister Holmes, and simply these:" Lestrade began as he finished off his water. "Captain James Pitts was, according to my own research, an avid sailor with a taste for adventure. A tobacco trader by profession, he was well-liked by many fellow sea-captains who knew him, as well as those who worked on his ship beside him."

"A taste for adventure, you say?" Holmes interrupted.

"Quite the explorer, as I've been told," Lestrade confirmed for my friend who, upon hearing this detail, asked that he continue his story. "It was last night, at exactly thirty minutes past ten that Pitts was found dead in his quarters by his cook, Mister Oliver Field. The cause of death has been determined to be exactly six knife wounds in the torso." The inspector drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

"And you are struggling to find the guilty party," I added to the discussion, so familiar with the common sources of Lestrade's puzzlement that I was sure I knew what help he had come to seek this time around.

A nervous bob of the inspector's head verified my surmise.

"Has the captain's body been removed from the Docks yet, Lestrade?" Holmes queried.

The detective sat before us adamantly said that it hadn't.

"Very good," my friend said. "My reason for asking this, as you most undoubtedly have guessed, is to assure that my curiosity might be quenched by having a personal look at the seaman."

Lestrade shakily stood from the chair.

"Certainly, Holmes; that is precisely what I had in mind."

Though my other more apparent questions had been answered, I was still quite interested in the root of the inspector's haste, and I promptly questioned him on the matter.

"It would seem, Watson, that our dear inspector has himself been threatened by the guilty party associated with this particular crime," Holmes answered for the detective who, without hesitation, agreed with this conclusion.

"I felt it unnecessary to mention to the both of you, but it seems that Holmes's brilliance has once again won out over my dishonesty."

"My God, man, are you alright?" I asked, quite alarmed by this revelation.

"Miraculously so, Doctor Watson. A knife had been expertly thrown at my head, barely grazing my right ear and lodging itself into the ship behind me. I was lucky that whoever threw the knife had such poor aim," the inspector chuckled.

"With such deliberate aim at your head, Lestrade, I doubt that the nature of the man's skill which he possesses accounts for your escaping death," Holmes seemingly scoffed.

"You suppose such a miss was intentional, then?" I wondered. "Perhaps a warning?"

"Indeed, my good doctor," my partner concurred. "However, one mustn't dwell on present dangers; they must focus on the task which lies beneath them." He looked to Lestrade once more. "If you'll pardon my ostensible insensitivity; since we have established that you are no more than sufficiently shaken, inspector, might we proceed to Captain Pitts' tobacco ship?"

Our journey to the Docks wasn't short of awkward; Detective Inspector Lestrade was still shaking from his close encounter with the Grim Reaper, Holmes was deeply buried in his own cluttered mind as he mulled over what little details he had been given in regards to the murder of the late Captain Pitts, and I meanwhile sat between the two men and recorded the start of our adventure in my leather-bound journal; the silence was palpable.

After what seemed little more than a decade, my two companions and I arrived at our destination, bowing our heads to the patient cab driver as we exited his four-wheeler and making our way towards the Eastern docks where Pitts' ship was anchored.

The ship itself was well kept, its wooden exterior kept free of algae and rot by an attentive staff. Upon boarding, I saw that the deck was equally pristine. Holmes, seeing my wandering eyes, explained to me that my observations indicated Pitts' strong relationship with his crew and his own obsession with cleanliness.

"Your ordinary sea-captain wouldn't be so concerned with having such a well-maintained ship, Watson," he clarified. "Our poor captain was most certainly far from usual."

A round-faced man greeted us solemnly, the ghostly pallor of his face contrasting his dark eyes and hair.

"Inspector; you've returned," he nodded at Lestrade. "Have you any leads?"

"I'm sorry to say that I haven't. But what I _have_ got is someone who can help." The detective gestured to Holmes. "This is Mister Sherlock Holmes," he introduced to the likely associate of Captain Pitts, "And his colleague, Doctor John Watson."

The associate smiled sadly at me and muttered a half-hearted 'Hello'. Holmes, ignoring proper etiquette as he normally did, simply stood beside me and scrutinised the poor man, no doubt deducing the fellow's life-story. My suspicions were confirmed quite quickly when my friend abruptly began to speak:

"You're clearly a former member of Captain Pitts' crew; quite a close one, if I'm not mistaken. Given the size of your calves, the obvious fact that you spend little to no time out in the sun, and that you have grease; nay, not soap nor tobacco; upon your fingertips and shirt, and have spent a considerable amount of time studying in Japan, tells me that you were, more specifically, the captain's personal chef. A few other noteworthy observations also include your habitual shaving indicated by the cut left by a straight razor, the scars on your left hand and thumb, and the fact that you smell of fish, despite your position on a tobacco ship." Holmes folded his hands behind his back and wrinkled his nose. "Might I say that it is a rather pungent odour?"

The three of us who stood in Holmes's company looked at him with flabbergasted expressions, the cook (whom said genius had just identified) looking the most astonished.

"My word!" he exclaimed. "That is all spot-on! How miraculous; extraordinary!"

My close companion laughed.

"Mere deduction, my good man; it's of little fascination." His hard-set features softened into an expression that was resonant of kindness and remorse; an obvious façade. "The inspector has, much to my dismay, failed to tell me your name. As you can imagine, such information would be of great use to me."

The cook shook himself out of his stupor and punctually answered Holmes.

"Cecil Harding, sir."

"And I've been informed that you were the unfortunate soul who fell upon your employer's body?"

Cecil cried.

"Oh, what a dreadful discovery it was, Mister Holmes! You see, my existing horror would not nearly be so matched had the captain merely been my employer." His shoulders shook with grief. "Pitts was a close friend, as you earlier addressed. He had been so long before I had begun work for him; we'd laboured together in a textile factory for years as youths, and grew fonder of one another because of it. Upon reaching the age of twenty-six, he found a good position on the very tobacco ship he managed, starting out as a simple cabin-boy until finally earned himself a promotion to first-mate, as he liked to refer to it. The captain he served under was a strict man, as James had informed me through letters, but was quite fond of my friend. So it made perfect sense that when the captain met his end due to a dangerous affection for rum, he bestowed upon James control over the ship."

"My friend was well-suited to fill the former captain's shoes, I knew; he was a just, kind, jovial fellow who brought joy to the men around him. I was lucky enough to experience such treatment when I found myself dropped as kitchen scullion at a local eating-house. I first travelled to the Japanese islands where I spent a good portion of my time studying the culinary arts, as that was a particular interest of mine. Five years I stayed there, living in less than admirable quarters, but pleased with the great level of skill I had obtained as a reward for my struggle. The letters from James never stopped, until of course he visited the very island on which I resided and due to good fortune, came across me whilst walking through the market in which I worked, making little pay. After some brief conversation and listening whole-heartedly to my tale, he offered me a position on his tobacco ship, and I accepted the invitation with much enthusiasm." Cecil sighed longingly. "The rest is quite trivial, Mister Holmes, and I wish to waste your time no further with my silly ramblings."

My friend smiled.

"No detail is ever trivial, Mister Harding. But I would like now to see the body."

I did know that Holmes had no intention of sounding rude, but I couldn't help but find myself quite irritated by his obliviousness. Nevertheless, he and I proceeded into the captain's cabin, guarded by two constables who didn't hesitate to step aside in order to let the both of us through, and we were alarmed by the scene before us:

Captain James Pitts laid on his back upon his bed, his arms and legs tangled in his sheets, his chest riddled with stab wounds, his eyes open and fearful, and his mouth agape like that of a fish gasping for air. A tray holding a relatively empty dish (save the bits of unwanted scraps) and a three-fourths empty glass of water sat on the side table next to a candle that had burned out.

"How dreadful," I commented, shifting upon my own two feet as I stared uncomfortably at the dead man.

"And curious," Holmes added, the twisted smirk on his face the product of a mix of fascination and disgust. "Let us take a closer look, doctor."

I, though still quite shocked, stepped forward with my companion until we were positioned on opposite sides of Pitts' berth. The smell of the corpse was a bit agitating.

"These wounds look remarkably identical," Sherlock Holmes remarked as he investigated the state of the captain's torso. "For there to have been a struggle means that there would also be a great difference in the depth and angle of the injuries."

I furrowed my brow in thought.

"Do you think perhaps he was caught in his sleep?" I proposed.

"It would be unusual then, Watson, for him to choose to remain fully dressed in his day clothes and to also neglect to put out his candle."

"Of course," I agreed, feeling foolish to have thought of such a ridiculous scenario.

"The perpetrator of these marks was left-handed, and definitely an aggressive assailant; he was looking to finish his task." Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Yet, despite the obvious force exerted by the knife, there is an astonishingly scarce amount of blood."

I frowned, noticing the very same thing. Waving away my partner's wandering fingers so that I could get a closer look at Pitts' torso, I probed the dead man's wounds, feeling the exact texture of the skin and the exposed flesh, something I was quite used to given my profession.

"You are right, Holmes," I agreed. "But the only way he couldn't have bled so extensively would be poor circulation."

"Or no circulation at all for that matter," Holmes suggested.

We looked each other in the eye.

"Are you suggesting that the captain was already dead?" I wondered.

"That is my current theory," he verified. "That perhaps our murderer was so preoccupied with killing Pitts that he neglected to even once check that the man he was supposedly killing was in any sort of state to be murdered."

"In other words, you propose that the "criminal" isn't a criminal at all."

"But there is no denying his skill when wielding a knife," Holmes said. "He is sure he's the one who is responsible for the captain's death. I suppose that is what motivated him to threaten the Inspector."

I couldn't resist the urge to chuckle.

"Surely this is quite ridiculous. Could a man really be so foolish?"

"You might be surprised, dear fellow," my clever friend argued matter-of-factly. He eyed the empty plate on the table beside the bed suspiciously before turning to face me once more. "I believe I've seen enough."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite so, Watson. My only other objective is to ask Mister Harding one more important question."

I followed Holmes out of the cabin, my head reeling as I marvelled at the mystery. The notion that Captain Pitts had been dead before his supposed murder was hard to wrap my thoughts around. Despite this, I trusted my friend enough to know that he was likely on the right path. I found myself faced with Mister Cecil Harding once more.

"Before I depart, Mister Harding, I am curious to know: did the captain have a healthy relationship will all of his crew members? Or did you ever detect a level of malcontent from one particular employee?"

Harding shook his head.

"They all were quite fond of James, Mister Holmes; every one."

I noticed the look of frustration on Holmes's face as he heard the news.

"I see."

Cecil thought for a moment.

"The only man I'm not quite sure about is the newest fellow James hired about four days ago. He never seemed suspicious, but then again, I never really had a chance to know him very well."

The light in my companion's eyes returned almost as quickly as it had dimmed.

"Do you know this man's name, by chance?"

"I am afraid I do not, Mister Holmes. All I am certain of is that he was a young man who appeared to be about James's age." He chewed his lip, still evidently distressed by the trauma of the evening prior. "But if it does help at all, I did notice something of great peculiarity: his right arm was a great deal shorter than his left."

Holmes and I exchanged an excited glance.

"Very good, Mister Harding." Holmes tipped his head to the cook. "Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. You may return home and set aside your worry, now, as your services are no longer needed."

As Harding descended to the docks, Inspector Lestrade approached my partner and me.

"Anything new?" he asked the both of us, hope taking over his once fearful expression.

"I should think so, Inspector," Holmes said. "And I assure you that you will be assuaged in due time. In the meantime, however, I suggest that you remove the captain's body and return to the station along with your officers; your safety is more assured."

Lestrade gave my friend a puzzled look.

"But Holmes, what of an arrest?"

"I don't believe it will be necessary."

"You've lost me," the inspector shrugged his shoulders.

I seconded such a sentiment.

"Everything will be explained," Holmes clarified for the both of us. "But time is an obstacle which we must firstly overcome."

Hours later, Holmes and I were safely returned to our flat, sitting beside the fire and both pondering the nature of Captain James Pitts' murder. I was predictably less invested than the genius sat beside me, not due to disinterest, but lack of mental capacity; this was an advantage over me that Holmes regularly boasted without much subtlety. Mrs Hudson had made the both of us tea, and I happily drank while Sherlock Holmes sat without so much as a twitch of the muscle. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was a wax figure. But soon enough, the man practically jumped out of his stone state and dashed into his bedroom.

"Goodness, Holmes, what are you doing now?" I inquired, startled by the sudden burst of energy.

"Our man will be lurking about the ship, no doubt," Holmes called from his room. I heard the sound of his wardrobe's hinges creaking as the doors they held in place were opened. "And I intend to catch him."

"What makes you certain that he'll appear tonight?"

Holmes poked his head through his door, donning his signature deerstalker and tugging on his cape.

"Because there is no one to stop him tonight."

"Have you a clue who he is?"

The man grinned and proceeded to put on his gloves.

"I have got a theory, Watson."

"Do you suppose it was the new recruit who Harding informed us of?"

"In a way, yes." Holmes strode across the room towards our front door. "I shall see you noon tomorrow at the latest."

I stood up from my chair and held my hand out to him as I begged for him to stop.

"You aren't going alone," I told him as I grabbed my own overcoat from my chair and fixed it upon myself. "If the fellow we're after is as dangerous as we believe he is, despite his innocence in the murder of the captain, I would rather I accompany you to the Docks."

Holmes did try to dispute me on the matter, but I remained insistent.

"Now is not the time for such a petty domestic argument, doctor. Time is of the essence."

I stepped beside him and opened the door with the most determined look upon my face.

"Then I suppose we ought to depart."

Holmes, noticing that an argument with me wasn't to be won, resignedly walked through the open door, with me close on his heels.

The night was an ominous black as the two of us rode through the streets of London, the hooves of the horse pulling us along echoing off the cobblestone. Holmes was, once again, invested in his own thoughts as we made the journey back to the Docks; even the occasional bump in the road failed to disturb him. Our driver stopped and allowed us to make an exit, and I found my friend's hand tightly gripping mine as we made our way across the central dock and back to the tobacco ship. As we rushed across the wooden panels, I saw out of the corner of my eye a number of shadowy vagrants seated beside barrels and shipping crates; a few of them, I noticed, were children, most likely members of Holmes's network he had running about the city doing his bidding. These irrelevant thoughts were interrupted by my partner's hand bracing against my chest to stop my feet from going any further.

"Do you see that, Watson?" he whispered to me.

I saw a dim light from the inside of the late captain's quarters, indicating that there was someone inside.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

"Proceed quietly and with caution. Have you your gun?"

I revealed to the man my pistol safely tucked away inside the interior pocket of my coat, and Holmes nodded.

Slowly, the two of us boarded the ship, keeping our eyes fixed upon the light coming from the cabin; my sweaty palm instinctively rested upon my gun as we grew closer. We found ourselves nearing the entrance, and Holmes looked to me, his bright eyes nonverbally informing me that we were about to throw ourselves in danger.

I was ready.

We stepped in front of the cabin's entrance, and Holmes spoke out:

"Evening, my good man."

A man with uneven arms and a blonde head of hair jumped and whipped around, quickly drawing out a knife from his left pocket.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded of us, flashing us a look of pure mania.

"A moment of your time," Holmes said with the cheekiest of smiles.

The intruder standing before us raised his knife defensively.

"What are you? Coppers?"

"In a sense," I said.

"So you've figured me out, then?" The man chuckled humourlessly. "Should have known threatening that inspector friend of yours was a bad idea."

"I must compliment your aim," my companion remarked. "Wherever did you learn such a skill? Your father, I'm assuming?"

The man looked confusedly at him, as did I.

"How did you know?"

"Your father was the former captain of this ship before Mister Pitts took over, am I correct? It would make sense that you would have learned a few sailors' tricks. Like how to handle a knife, for example."

The man seemed horrified.

"What game is this?"

"I'm assuming I'm right, then?" Holmes raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Yeah," the intruder's expression hardened. "And a bastard he was, too."

"Leaving James possession of his trade rather than you," my friend said.

"It wasn't fair!" the man yelled. "I did everything for that man, even as a young boy! And how did he repay me? He hit me, scarred me, and broke every bone in my body! My arm's proof of that." He sniffed. "And I suffered through all of it, knowing that I was going to be made a rich man in the end. And then Pitts comes along and steals his rotten heart!"

My companion and I listened with great interest, pity having seemingly left the both of us.

"I had to think of some way to get what was rightfully mine, and after some years I finally figured out a way; Pitts was looking for new a new labourer after his man old Smith passed away. So I took my shot. I was hoping I'd made it long enough to get the man's fortune and make off with it, but then you two showed up." He looked closely at the two of us. "You sure don't look like police."

"We aren't," Holmes assured him. "But we are an ally of the law."

"So what am I going to get?" the criminal huffed. "Life? Death?"

"No more than ten years, I'm sure," my friend said. "The only crime you are guilty of is robbery and vandalising a corpse. The aforementioned offense is the more serious of the two."

The man before us looked completely taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid you simply stabbed Captain Pitts' dead body," Holmes said. "He was dead long before you arrived."

The criminal laughed to himself.

"Well I'll be blown. Lucky me, yeah?"

"However, I'm sure attempted murder will be taken into account…" Holmes added.

"I don't think so," the criminal shook his head. "Because I'm not planning on going anywhere."

It was then that I decided to step in once more.

"If you come with us now, you're sure to escape with a fairly short sentence."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"And if I don't, I'm likely to escape with none at all."

Without much warning, the man reared his arm back and prepared to throw his knife at my partner. Luckily, I was just as swift in drawing out my gun and fired a shot at the criminal. He cowed away from the sound of my bullet as the knife left his fingers, and I heard a hiss of pain from Holmes as he dropped to the floor. I immediately dropped beside him and frantically checked his body for blood, finding a source on his arm; I paid little mind to the sound of footsteps running past me and my gun, which I had carelessly thrown to the side.

"For goodness sake, Watson, it's rather superficial. He's getting away!"

A quick glance at the wound on my friend's arm, and I knew that such an injury wouldn't be devastating. So quickly, I took to my feet and ran out onto the ship's deck, pouncing on the fleeing man and engaging in a rather rough scrap. We rolled about on the floor, my training as a soldier giving me quite a significant advantage over my opponent. I looked to be coming out the champion of the fight until my strong hand slipped off his right shoulder and practically sent me face-first into the ground. He quickly took his opportunity and flipped me onto the ground, proceeding to climb on top of me. Before I had a chance to resume my defences, I saw a glint of metal reflect off of the moonlight; another knife he'd kept hidden somewhere. I only managed to slide away a few inches before I felt the cold blade slide into my abdomen, deep enough that it completely disappeared into my stomach. I could barely restrain the cry of pain that I let out as I felt the knife plunge into my body; the pain intensified as the instrument was just as quickly pulled out of me. I felt my blood run hot from my new wound, seeping through my shirt and blossoming across my stomach.

A gunshot rang like cannon fire through the air, and I felt my assailant fall upon my chest, the pressure on my wound from his rather heavy form causing me to groan in agony.

"Watson!" I heard my friend call to me.

His hands were on my shoulder, shaking me to rouse me from my desperate attempts at sleep.

"Watson, are you alright?" he questioned me, his voice sounding unusually panicked.

I felt the weight of the criminal's body roll off of my torso and onto the ground beside me.

"Watson!"

My friend's hand rested momentarily on my stomach as he tried to shake me once more, but he gasped and tore it away.

"Watson, you're- you're bleeding." I suddenly felt his frantic hands unbuttoning my dress shirt, exposing my bare skin to the foggy air; the choked sound I heard come from Holmes as he saw the extent of my injury is one I would care to never hear again. "Dammit, Watson!" Through bleary vision, I recognised the sight of his gloved hands ripping away his cape. Its smooth fabric was then firmly pressed upon the bleeding gash on my abdomen, eliciting a moan of pain from me; I felt as if there were a fire burning inside of me, and I desperately wanted my companion to stop holding it in. Weakly, I attempted to tear his hands away from me, but he persisted. "Stop moving, Watson," he commanded me, "For God's sake, hold still!" The tremor in my friend's voice became more evident, and I felt one of his hands cup my cheek, as if trying to reassure me.

There came the sound of a police whistle and a desperate cry for help from Holmes as my senses began to leave me. My eyes clouded over with grey and I felt my lids begin to slide shut.

"Watson, stay awake," Holmes urged me. "Stay with me!"

I wanted to oblige, but could barely muster the strength to keep myself conscious.

"Please, John," I heard him beg, "Please stay with me."

The last detail I am able to recall from that night is the excruciating pain that I felt before slipping into oblivion.

It will do my readers some level of dissatisfaction, I'm sure, to know that I can't remember much else. Of course, I am vaguely aware of occasional bouts of wakefulness, the most notable perhaps being my brief period of consciousness whilst being operated upon by surgeons. But that is afraid all I am able to recount.

What I do remember is my full return to consciousness.

I woke in an unfamiliar room that most definitely wasn't my own. Facing the opposite wall, I recognised a beautiful wooden armoire positioned next to a vanity stocked with various wigs, facial hair, and spectacles. It was a strange sight, certainly. I was then made aware of the ache in my stomach, and I suddenly recalled the trauma I had experienced.

"Holmes?" I called out, my throat raw and therefore sounding quite hoarse as I made use of it.

There was a movement beside me, a warm presence I had neglected to notice before, and I heard a small intake of breath.

"You're awake."

It sounded like the very man whom I had summoned. With some effort, I craned my neck to find myself locked with the overwhelmingly relieved face of Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were alarmingly red, given a hollowed sort of appearance by the dark rings beneath them. His normally slick hair was dishevelled and his already pale skin seemed even paler, if not greyer.

"Are you alright?" I asked him, feeling quite exhausted from the mere effort.

"My dear Watson," he said softly, his hand gripping my shoulder. "I have never felt better than I do in this moment."

I remembered our adventure with the three Garridebs; I recalled the exact moment when I felt the bullet graze my thigh and the morbid satisfaction of seeing the worry on my friend's face. I remembered wishing that such concern had stayed a bit longer.

I immediately regretted such a desire.

In all of my years as a professional soldier and doctor, I have never seen a man look so helpless. And though it is always comforting to know how meaningful my life is to such a cold-hearted man, it will never overshadow the guilt that I feel for tearing him apart.

I was bedridden for days, kept company by my loyal and brilliant companion as I recovered from my nearly fatal wound. Holmes informed me of the true resolution of our case, and I was quite interested to listen.

"It was Mister Harding," he told me.

I was quite shocked by the news, but Holmes assured me it was nothing.

"A mere accident. Tetrodotoxin from the ovaries of a Fugu fish, a dish most commonly enjoyed in Japan."

He reminded me of the fact that the cook had spent a considerable amount of time studying in Japan, and it began to make sense to me.

"The cause of death was asphyxiation, you see," he said, "Which is caused by the neurotoxin."

I was astonished.

"Have you told the poor fellow?" I asked him, wincing as I felt my stomach throb from my slight movement.

His lips tightening at my discomfort, my friend shook his head.

"It is rather pointless. I would rather a man fully deserving of punishment take the blame."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Have you had that man convicted?"

"The man who nearly killed you? Of course," Holmes said with a rather frightening grimace. "I've informed the inspector that he is the one who murdered the captain. Lestrade was perfectly willing to accept such a conclusion as fact when he saw what had been done to you."

I narrowed my eyes.

"But he didn't murder the captain."

"Perhaps I was wrong," Holmes shrugged. "I am only human after all."

I refused to further question him on the matter, knowing fully well that I would not be given a straight answer, and I simply focused myself on regaining my full strength.

Today I am left with a simple scar that seems to fade as my youth does, and I am perfectly well. Of course, it doesn't take a mind like that of Sherlock Holmes to see that that is the truth. I am also pleased to inform that no drastic incident such as this has occurred since the case of Captain Pitts. Yet, to this day, I don't believe that Holmes has completely forgotten that night.

Every day I pass him by, I notice the fear and uncertainty that lingers in his gaze, a look I'd never seen before my injury, and I am afraid that such emotion won't abandon his fragile mind any time soon; perhaps ever.

I have learned that once you've seen a man's heart, it is wise to suture shut his chest and never tear away the stitches.

Old wounds take the longest time to heal, after all.


End file.
